The next few days passed in a blur. Mao found herself perched at the window every dawn, as if the seamstress would come early. By the afternoon of the second day, her father had grown weary of her behavior and banished her out of doors.

  So she perched on a rock, a mountain of a boulder, that lay at the edge of the yard. Here she could see farther than the window, and her eyes watched the snaking path hungrily.

  It was here, on the dawn of the third day, that she sat when Fames’ large form came lumbering out from the stables.

  “Get off that rock.” His tone, always cold and harsh, struck her like a knife.

  “I rather not.” Mao replied calmly.

  “I was not asking.” Fames leaned his large body against the boulder, his breath coming in ragged, deep pants.

  Fames was massive. His tawny pelt stretched grotesquely over the rolls of fat that hung off him like sandbags. The pale yellow mane and tail that decorated his neck and behind nearly reached the ground in a thick, shiny waterfall. His broad back almost reached the top of the boulder itself, but Mao paid him no mind.

  Or as little as she could.

  Her heart thudded in her chest, and the pull to look at him, as always, bubbled up within her. But she would not.

  Could not.

  For she was not ready and to make contact with his gaze could very well mean death for the unworthy.

  I am not worthy. The thought hung in her mind as he rested his giant head next to her, staring into the distance as well.

  “She will come when she comes. Feed me.” He spoke aloud and in her head at once. She hated it.

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  “Feed yourself.”

  “Your father has hid my food. Feed me.” Mao could feel his eyes boring into her, but she dared not look at him.

  “Then you’ve had enough.”

  “It is…never enough.”

  Heaving himself away from the rock, he lumbered back toward the stables much like a giant bull picks it way through a China shop. Only the bull had more grace.

  Mao watched him go, then returned her gaze to the far side of the cavern. Were there a breeze to move the stagnant air, but here no such breeze ever blew. It left the very rock wanting.

  As the day progressed, she slowly began to lose hope that her dress would arrive that day. Or, worst still, any day.

  Just as she was about to go inside to find herself something to quell the suffocating hunger inside of her, she saw it. The glow of a light.

  Before it had fully registered what she was seeing, her feet were on the ground. Then they were running. Stumbling first like a newborn deer, then graceful like an antelope, and then flying.

  She had not even noticed her wings had come out until the wind ripped through her hair, streaming it behind her as with great flaps she took to the sky.

  She wanted to see it, to judge it without her father’s words poisoning her mind. The dress made for her by a woman who looked at her with a mixture of pity and cold aloofness. How did the seamstress see her?

  The carriage pulled to a stop as Mao descended upon it, the driver not seeming surprised. The door opened as she landed, Mistress Landragon looking out at her with an arched brow.

  “I see we are meeting outdoors?”

  “Forgive me. I wanted a sneak peek.” Mao felt her wings shiver back into her, pulling until they once more hid inside of her back. The tatters of her shirt left her exposed and she silently cursed her impulsive nature. This was her last good shirt, except for her uniform.

  “You cannot. Get in.” Mao felt her heart drop as she climbed into the carriage, and she sat across from Landragon, eyes on her hands. “Oh do not look so defeated. I have broken a rule.”

  Mao looked up at her, surprised to see a smile curving the older woman’s lips. Just a little.

  “In the box there are two dresses. One, we shall show your father. The other you will wear to the ball.”

  “Two dresses…?” Mao stared at her, her mind trying to grasp what the seamstress was saying.

  “Yes. Your father…He will have what he ordered. And you, my dear, will wear a gown befitting your station.”

  Mao felt a knot of apprehension forming in her stomach. A secret. From her father?

  A dress? Befitting of her station?

  I don’t have a station. She wanted to say the words, but they felt like a lump in her throat. The carriage ride could not end fast enough.